He looked at her blankly, obviously so filled with guilt that the mere mention of his lover’s name left him dumb. “I…forgive me.”
Genevieve closed her eyes, for the urge to tell him the truth about Constanza, the secret hope that doing so might make him turn to her, was so strong it weakened her. But she knew she could not do that. She would not wish to have him that way.
Not out of guilt that he had made love to her. If Marcel did not want her, Genevieve, more than any other, then to have him would be nothing.
Without another sound she rose and picked up her robe. She was past shame, past caring if he looked at her or nay. All she was aware of was the great and agonizing pain inside her.
Only as she went to the door did Marcel seem to realize that she was leaving. He made a halfhearted attempt to stop her. “Please, Genevieve, we should talk.”
She looked at him, seeing the emptiness in his eyes. It felt as if she were looking into a mirror of her own misery. She spoke harshly. “Nay. There is nothing more to say. We both know what lack-wits we have been. Neither of us has ever been foolhardy enough to profess that what exists between us had aught to do with love or any such emotion. Let us not belabor the situation, but attempt to salvage some semblance of pride.”
He said no more to stop her, his lips clamping tightly as if to keep himself from speaking.
Marcel said not another word until the door had closed behind her. When it did, he let out an expletive so foul that it would have shocked half the members of his crew aboard the Briarwind.
When he’d woken to find Genevieve in his bed, Marcel had been overcome with equal amounts of joy and agony. He had risen from the bed, his mind filled with an image of her face, so lovely and innocent in sleep.
Dear God, what had he done? He knew it was wrong to take her as he had. He’d simply lost himself in her, in his need for her, in her passionate and un-ashamed responses to him.
She had spoken of his love for Constanza and he had nearly told her the truth—that he did not love the other woman, that there was in fact nothing between them.
Her stopping him as he began to speak had brought him to his senses. Marcel had nothing to offer Genevieve. A woman like her with her great wealth and position should only wed a man who was her equal in status.
He knew that right now Genevieve thought she wanted him, that she did indeed desire him with a passion that had brought him to his knees. But it would not last. Passion was not love and neither of them had ever professed to feel anything more than passion.
If he were to do the right thing here and ask for her, as he should after having taken her virginity, they could never be truly be happy. Genevieve had been honest enough to tell him that she did not love him.
Beyond that, Marcel told himself forcefully, he would only come to resent the infringement upon his freedom. He would always feel that he had been given something he had not earned. Nay, he shook his head. ’Twas best left as it stood, even though it hurt him more than he would ever have imagined to see the betrayal in her gaze as she left him.
The frustration and unhappiness Marcel felt over the disastrous situation between himself and Genevieve was only compounded by the fact that he continued to make no gain in his efforts to make peace between the two feuding Scots. The two men had learned of the marriage of the offspring and it had only heated their hatred to a fevered pitch. His every attempt to reason with either man over the past days had ended in shouted accusations of the other’s treachery.
His disposition was not improved by the fact that Genevieve had not spoken to him since the morning she had woken in his bed. He knew that he could not fault her for her anger. Neither could he easily bear the brunt of it, especially when his every contact with her made him long with a fierce and aching need to take her back to his bed and love her until both of them were sated and exhausted.
Yet that could not be. Nothing had changed, nor would it.
These thoughts rode hard on his mind as he returned from his third failed effort to persuade McGuire to hear Duggan out. Truth be told, he had spent more time thinking of Genevieve than in concentrating on the matter at hand. He knew that things could not continue as they were. He would most certainly go mad.
He must settle matters here in Scotland and return Genevieve to Brackenmoore, where she belonged. It was his only hope of putting his life in order.
Marcel spurred his mount toward Glen Rowan. When he arrived, he went immediately to his aunt after being told that she was in her own chambers.
He opened the door at her command and saw that she was not alone. Genevieve sat in a chair next to hers and the two women appeared to be sewing on different portions of the same garment.
Genevieve’s gaze met his for the briefest moment before she quickly looked down at her needle. Yet that moment was not so brief that he failed to see the hurt in her sea-green eyes.
He forced himself to turn to his aunt, who took on an expression of dread as she saw his face. “Has something happened?”
He shook his head, “Nay, neither good nor ill.” He laughed without humor. “Have no worry on that score. I learned nothing new at my meeting with McGuire.” He went on speaking with as much compassion as he could in deference to her fears for Cameron. “Yet I have come to a decision. This situation has gone quite far enough, Aunt Finella. I know that you do not wish for me to act openly against McGuire for fear of his harming Cameron, but I cannot continue to sit idly by knowing that he is keeping the boy and seems to have no intention of letting him go at any near date.”
She raised trembling hands to her cheeks. “What do you mean to do?”
“I mean to find my cousin and bring him home. Any further negotiations with McGuire and Duggan will take place when that has been accomplished. Neither of them has any intent to be swayed from their tediously fixed positions. They must be forced to do so. I would not have my cousin at the mercy of such men for another moment.”
He could feel Genevieve’s steady regard and turned to her. “Pray, Genevieve, help me in this. I need know if there is anything more you can recall that might help me to locate the place where Cameron is being held.”
She took a deep breath and nodded, obviously willing to put her anger with him aside in the name of this cause. “As I told you, I was blindfolded for most of the ride there and all of the return to Glen Rowan. If only I could recall something new, but I fear I have told you all.” Her open regret told him just how much she did wish to remember something new.
Earnestly he held her gaze. “Aye, I know you have tried your best, but think one more time, Genevieve. You are our only hope. The only one who has been there. Any small hint, no matter how seemingly irrelevant might end in being greatly significant.”
She pushed her hair back from her forehead as she clearly fought to drag something from her memory. “There was really nothing. Nothing that would be specific enough to find the location again. All I could hear was the sounds of the horses’ hooves…then men exchanging very few words…mostly one-word orders from McGuire…” She shook her head again. “Water rushing loudly for a moment…”
Aunt Finella interrupted softly, her voice intent. “Water rushing?”
Genevieve looked at her in surprise, nodding. “Yes. I do not know where, and it was only for a moment, not even long enough to tell how large a body, though the sound was quite loud for that one moment.”
She watched Genevieve closely. “How long was it after hearing the sound of water that you arrived where my grandson is being held?”
Genevieve frowned in concentration. “I…saints above, I am not sure. I did not know that…”
Marcel spoke more harshly than he intended, understanding by his aunt’s expression that the reply could be very important. “Think, Genevieve.” As she turned her wounded gaze upon him, he apologized quickly. “Forgive me, I know you are doing your utmost. It is simply that it seems this information might give Aunt some clue as to where you were taken.”
His aunt nodded. “It might, indeed. For if your destination was close onto hearing this sound I believe I may know the location. For there is a very old structure, built in the fashion of the Vikings not far from Clananaught Falls.”
Genevieve frowned pensively. “Aye, I do believe it was not long before we arrived.”
Aunt Finella clasped her hands together, her face registering hope, joy and fear all at one and the same time. She looked to Marcel. “Then I can surely direct you to the place I am thinking of.” She took a deep breath, before adding, “Though Genevieve has given us this clue, there is no surety that it is the correct location. I could be misinterpreting what she heard.”
Marcel shook his own head. “However uncertain, ’tis a better hope than what we had.” He looked to Genevieve, his gaze warm in spite of knowing that he should keep his emotions close to him. “You have my thanks.”
The regret and sadness in her gaze made him turn away.
Knowing that he could not allow himself to react to this, Marcel concentrated on what he must do now in connection to his cousin. As he did so he realized just what this information meant. Should fortune smile upon him, he might, by stealth and surprise, go to this place and take the lad before anyone could prevent him. On the other hand should their supposition prove wrong and McGuire learn of his attempt, he would get no second opportunity. They would certainly make sure that Cameron was taken to an even more secure position than the one he was in now.
There could be no mistakes.
Yet he must act. With the two feuding families now even more immersed in their anger toward one another at the marriage of their wayward offspring, there was no telling how long it might take them to come to their senses.
He would not make the little boy wait in the hope that they would overcome their anger toward one another. Both men had displayed a stubborn disregard of Cameron.
The summer night was very still, too still. No birds twittered in the trees, no small animals scuttled about in the underbrush. The moon in the sky overhead shone all about the silent earth with a brightness that caused Marcel no small amount of discomfort. Though it lightened the way ahead well enough, any sentries that might be waiting in the forest would be able to see the small mounted party with little effort.
Firmly he told himself not to let his imagination wander to mishaps that might occur. No matter what, if Cameron was at the location, he would succeed in rescuing him.
To even contemplate other possibilities was to only invite trouble.
Connor, one of his aunt’s most trusted men, rode his mount up beside Marcel’s as a sudden thunderous rushing of water came from his left. The Scot pointed off toward the sound, his voice so low as to barely be audible as he said, “Clananaught Falls.”
Marcel nodded and they pressed on again. The noise ceased almost immediately. No wonder Genevieve had thought it such a strange and unidentifiable sound. The falls must lie at the back of a narrow chasm or the like.
Genevieve. The mere thought of her brought a rush of melancholy. And longing.
Quickly Marcel concentrated on where he was going. No good could come of thinking about Genevieve.
He had pressing matters to occupy him. He hoped against all reason that they would be able to gain Cameron’s freedom without bloodshed. Though he was angry and frustrated with the whole situation, Marcel was also infinitely conscious of the fact that his aunt continued to plead for restraint. He would not betray her by destroying all possibility of seeing this feud to a peaceful conclusion.
It seemed a very short time later when Connor raised a hand for them to halt, again drawing near to Marcel. “’Tis just ahead through those trees.”
Marcel nodded, whispering back, “Conner, we must waste no time once the dwelling is breached. You know our intent. If Cameron is not within we must try to learn of his location. If you think it can be gained, go there immediately. Once we have taken this step, we can no longer be completely assured of the boy’s safety.”
Connor nodded his dark blond head, his strong face grim. Glancing at the other four men, Marcel could see that their expressions were equally grave. They cared for the child and for their mistress.
Marcel spoke again, with the same care for quiet. “We will leave the horses here.”
The men obeyed him by dismounting and tying their animals to the lower branches of the yew trees. He did the same.
All the while he was ever watchful for any sign of unwanted company. The forest continued to lie still and silent around them.
In single file they moved from the shelter of the trees, Marcel in the lead. With the stealth born of sheer necessity he approached the building, which was highlighted by the moonlight. It was a long, single-story, windowless structure—as Genevieve had described it.
The wide oak door appeared to be unmanned. Marcel became more incredulous at this seeming lack of security by the moment. He did not drop his own guard, for to do so would be to court disaster.
He signaled for the men to approach the door. Maintaining an almost preternatural silence, they took up positions on either side of the portal. Marcel joined them, cautious, listening, trying to anticipate any threat before it arrived.
There was no sound, not one clue as to what they would find within. Anxiety stretched his nerves as taut as the string of a drawn bow.
Taking a deep breath, Marcel moved to the door and with as much care as possible, he lifted the latch. Obviously bolted from within, it would not budge. Again he motioned with his hand and four of the men went into the woods, coming back a moment later with a short but heavy looking log. Marcel stood back and dropped his hand.
They surged forward, the sound of the log pounding against the portal ripping a hole in the silent darkness. With a resounding crash the door fell inward, torn from its hinges.
Instantaneous chaos erupted inside as dogs began barking, women screamed and men cried out in surprise.
Not wanting to give them time to gather their forces, Marcel took his sword from its sheath and yelled, “Follow me.”
He then ran forward across the fallen door, hearing the men right behind him. He could only pray that he was not leading them to their deaths.
The sight that met his eyes was one that made Marcel stop still and assess the situation. As he watched, someone was lighting the torches that hung in the wall near the empty hearth. In their wavering light he saw several women and men standing down at the far end of the room. Dogs that had been chained beside the hearth leaped and thrashed about, barking with great furor. All of them were clearly suffering from complete surprise.
His gaze narrowed as one of the men suddenly raced across the floor and took up a sword from the bedroll where he must have been sleeping prior to their arrival. Another man hurried to do the same.
Marcel strode toward them quickly. “I would think twice were I you, my friends. You are outnumbered.” And it was true. The two men and three women would be no match for the six of them, especially as Marcel and his party had surprise as their ally.
With a disconsolate glance toward each other, the two men dropped their swords to the floor with a clatter. Marcel motioned to Connor, who moved to collect the weapons as the men went to stand beside the huddled women.
As he watched this, Marcel was hard-pressed to credit what was taking place as true. Who would have imagined that no more than two armed men had been left here to guard Cameron? Obviously McGuire had not expected a rescue attempt. He had been far too sure of his own supremacy in this situation.
And all to Marcel’s benefit.
Or perhaps not, Marcel suddenly thought. He had not seen Cameron. He was not, in fact, even certain that his cousin had ever been here, though passing the waterfall had given him fair hope that it was so.
Yet Marcel knew he would best be served in this by acting as though he knew what he was about. Thus thinking, he growled, “Where is Cameron?”
There was an uncomfortable ripple amongst the group.
Marcel was
not sure whether to take this as a sign of good or ill. He spoke again, still acting as though he knew what he was doing. “I want the boy and I want him now. Lest you hold your lives in little value you will release him into my care.”
The man who had first taken up his sword said, “Why do ye think he is here?”
Marcel moved closer, again aware that his aunt’s men were right behind him. It was a good feeling, knowing they were with him in this, their allegiance unwavering.
Marcel smiled, hiding his uncertainty as to whether his cousin was indeed being held here. “Suffice it to say that I know he is here and you will produce him.” His heart was hammering with the hope that he had not made a dreadful mistake that could very well put the lad in serious jeopardy.
The man who had spoken before said, “Ye are mist—”
He was interrupted by a scuffling noise from behind him. With a nervous glance toward Marcel he went on quickly saying “mistaken” in a louder voice. But it was too late. Marcel had heard that noise, which was followed by another that could only be taken for a gasp of pain.
Striding down the length of the chamber, Marcel pushed the small group near the hearth aside. Now he could see why they had all been standing there huddled together as they were. They were attempting to hide the heavy wool curtain that hung behind them. It was from behind this curtain that the noises had come.
Marcel grasped the drapery, ripping it from the wall. Behind it lay a small alcove that held a bed. A man stood against the wall beside the bed. In his arms he held a hand over the bottom half of the face of a squirming auburn-haired lad that indicated to Marcel that this could only be Cameron. Behind them in the bed was a boy with a thatch of red hair and wide green eyes.
Summer's Bride Page 18
